Murder in Paradise - 4. Chapter 4

The first light of dawn was beginning to paint the sky in hues of pink and orange as Nora stood frozen, her gaze fixed on the lifeless figure of Roland Fairbanks. His body lay sprawled across the sand, a stark contrast against the pristine beach. Alison, her face pale and drawn, confirmed the worst: he was dead.

A wave of shock and disbelief washed over Nora. She had never imagined such a tragedy could strike in this idyllic setting. Her mind raced, trying to piece together the events of the night before.

With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone and dialed the emergency number. "Você deve vir, venha rápido!" she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. The urgency in her voice was palpable as she explained the situation to the operator.

Soon, the sound of sirens pierced the morning silence. Police cars, flashing their blue lights, arrived at the scene. The once-vibrant party had been abruptly halted, the music silenced, the laughter stilled. The beach, now a crime scene, was cordoned off with yellow tape. Officers, their faces grim, began their investigation.

One by one, the partygoers were questioned, their names, addresses, and nationalities recorded. The once-festive atmosphere had turned somber, the air thick with tension and uncertainty. As the sun rose higher, casting long shadows across the sand, the mystery of Roland Fairbanks' death deepened.

◇ ◇ ◇

Commissaire Herrera, a seasoned detective with a keen eye for detail, sat across from Nora, his gaze intense. The young woman, with her wide, expressive eyes and a delicate frame, seemed both fragile and resilient.

"You mentioned a strained relationship with Mr. Fairbanks," he began, his voice low and measured. "Could you elaborate?"

Nora hesitated, her fingers nervously twisting a strand of hair. "Well, he was... difficult. He had a way of making people feel small, insignificant."

"And his relationship with Alex Mason?" Herrera pressed.

Nora's cheeks flushed. "It was... inappropriate. Unethical, even. He used his position to take advantage of a young, impressionable man."

Herrera nodded, his expression neutral. "Jealousy can be a powerful motivator, Senhorita. Perhaps you felt threatened by his influence over Alex?"

Nora's eyes widened in surprise. "No, that's not it. I simply don't condone that kind of behavior."

Herrera leaned forward, his voice low. "We'll see, Senhorita Nora. We'll see."

As Nora left the room, Herrera made a note to himself. Jealousy, perhaps. But there was something more, something darker lurking beneath the surface. He would need to dig deeper, to uncover the truth.

◇ ◇ ◇

Commissaire Herrera faced Alison, his gaze fixed on her. She was a striking woman, her appearance carefully cultivated. But beneath the polished exterior, there was a vulnerability, a fear that was palpable, just as he had noticed with Nora.

"You were with Nora when you discovered the body," Herrera began, his voice low. "Tell me, what happened?"

Alison recounted the events of the night, her voice trembling slightly. "We were walking along the beach, and then we saw him. He was... lifeless."

"And your relationship with Mr. Fairbanks?" Herrera asked.

"I am," she paused and took a long breath, "was, his personal assistant," Alison replied. "I handled his schedule, his correspondence, everything."

"You must have known him well," Herrera pressed. "Tell me, what kind of man was he?"

Alison hesitated, her eyes darting nervously. "He was... complicated. Ambitious, charming, but also... dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Herrera raised an eyebrow.

"He had a lot of enemies," Alison admitted. "There was Carlos Sanchez, for example. He was a... a fixer, a man who could make things happen. But he was also a shady character, someone who could be threatening."

Herrera nodded, intrigued. "And Beverley Henderson? What was her relationship with Mr. Fairbanks?"

"She was... wary of him," Alison replied. "She didn't trust him. And she had good reason."

"And what about Alex Mason? What was his relationship with Mr. Fairbanks?" Herrera asked.

Alison hesitated. "They were close, I suppose. But it was more than just a professional relationship. There was something... something deeper."

Herrera leaned forward. "Something deeper? What do you mean?"

Alison hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "It's complicated," she finally said. "But I think it's best if you ask Alex yourself."

◇ ◇ ◇

It was Alex Mason who was next on his list, the young model with the enigmatic smile. As he waited for Alex to arrive, Herrera pondered the complex web of relationships that had led to Roland Fairbanks' untimely death. Each person, each connection, was a piece of the puzzle, and it was his job to fit them all together.

Commissaire Herrera scrutinized the young man in front of him. Alex Mason was, indeed, a striking figure, a testament to the allure of the modeling world. His beauty, a potent blend of innocence and raw sexuality, could easily captivate both men and women.

"You were the last person, as far as we know, to see Mr. Fairbanks alive," Herrera began, his voice low and deliberate. "What were you doing on the beach?"

"Walking," Alex replied, his voice barely a whisper.

"Walking, in silence?" Herrera frowned, skepticism etched on his face.

Alex hesitated, his mind racing. "We talked," he finally admitted, his voice barely audible.

"Talked about what, exactly?" Herrera pressed.

A wave of dread washed over Alex. Revealing the truth about Roland's advances would paint him as a victim, but it would also make him a suspect. He couldn't risk it.

"We talked about the photo shoot," he lied, his voice faltering. "The location, the lighting, the usual stuff."

Herrera wasn't buying it. "Mr. Fairbanks was deciding between you and... Jack Langdon, wasn't he?"

Alex nodded, his face flushed. "I suppose."

"And who did he choose?" Herrera asked, leaning forward.

Alex shrugged. "I don't know. He never told me."

Herrera's gaze sharpened. "You were seen on the beach, quite intimate, in fact. His arm was around your shoulder. Buddies, then?"

Alex shifted uncomfortably. "Not really. I mean, I work for him, for the modelling agency, he owns half of it. That's all."

Herrera leaned back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "We'll see, Mr. Mason. We'll see."

◇ ◇ ◇

Commissaire Herrera was a man of methodical precision, as he scrutinised Beverley Henderson, the co-director of the prestigious Fairbanks Modelling Agency, he pondered his approach. The air in the stark, grey hotel room was thick with tension, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the clock.

Herrera wanted to get to the bottom of the death of Roland Fairbanks, but for the moment the cause was undetermined. His death may have been a tragic accident or something more sinister, but one thing was certain, intrigue surrounded this affair.

"So, Mrs. Henderson," Herrera began, his voice a low rumble, "can you tell me about Mr. Fairbank's role in the agency?"

Beverley Henderson, a woman who looked good for her age, had a calculated demeanor, she hesitated. "Roland was... well, he was the visionary. The creative force behind this project. He had an eye for talent, a knack for spotting the next big thing."

Herrera nodded, his eyes narrowing. "And how did he come to own fifty percent of the agency?"

Beverley's lips curved into a tight smile. "It was a business arrangement. A partnership, if you will. A strategic move."

Herrera pressed on, "Was there... any animosity between you and Mr. Fairbanks? Any disagreements, perhaps?"

Beverley's expression hardened. "We were partners, Commissaire. We had our differences, of course. But we were professionals."

Herrera listened, but did not fully believe her. There was something that didn't ring true about her answers, a certain guardedness that piqued his interest. He decided to change tack.

"And Carlos Sanchez," he inquired, "what was his role in the agency?"

Beverley's eyes flickered with surprise. "Carlos? He was just a chauffeur, a messenger boy. Nothing more."

A messenger boy? Herrera found this hard to believe. "A messenger boy?" he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "What kind of errands did he run?"

Beverley's voice grew thin. "He... he ran errands. Small tasks, you know. Delivering documents, picking up packages."

Herrera leaned forward, his gaze intense. "And where is Mr. Sanchez now? Have you seen him?"

Beverley's eyes darted nervously. "I... I don't know. I haven't seen him."

Herrera's intuition told him that something was amiss. "I see," he said slowly, "it seems Mr. Sanchez has vanished into thin air. A rather peculiar disappearance, don't you think?"

Beverley remained silent, her face a mask of indifference. But Herrera knew better. He could see the fear, the guilt, lurking beneath the surface.

As she left the room, Herrera pondered the puzzle. Who was Carlos Sanchez, really? And why had he disappeared? The answers, he suspected, lay buried deep within the shadowy world of the fashion industry.